A Dark Night
by Motimo
Summary: John is close to catching a killer when he finds himself about to be killed. Who comes to his rescue? He dead best friend, Sherlock Holmes. - Once reunited, the two are being once again hunted down.
1. Two Killers

John Watson ran hard through the streets of London, his feet pounding against the hard cement tiles. He was so close. After all of his work, his observing, his dedication, he was going to be rewarded. Panting, he chased the sillouette, who he promised him self would not get away again.

_He had gotten the call from Lestrade weeks ago. _

"_John, there's this case I would like your help on."_

"_Why me?"_

"_You're good, John."_

"_Lestrade, I'm...I'm not Sherlock."_

"_I didn't say you were. Get down here."_

"_All right, Lestrade." and with that he hung up the call. He grabbed his old, worn coat and threw on his shoes. He hadn't done any 'detective' work with the police since Sherlock died. He had stayed at the surgery, solving mysterious cases of stomach aches, body injuries, and common colds. Now was his chance to venture out on to something real. Something dangerous. 'Oh, God yes.' He thought to himself as he dashed out of the door of his flat. _

_When he arrived at the station, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were waiting for him. He noticed the sly looks being exchanged between Sally and Anderson, the small flash of smiles flickering across their should-be concerned faces - according to how Lestrade looked. The detective inspecter himself was a bit absorbed into the case file, the brow furrowed deeply. He frowned and sighed to himself, then looked up and looked to John, some relief blossoming in his eyes. _

"_John! So glad you could come." he stated, as if he hadn't implied that John had to come regardless on the phone. _

"_Me too. So...what's the story here?"_

"_We may have a serial killer. There's been two reports of homicide, and they were deeply familar to each other."_

"_In what ways have you seen so far?" He asks, accepting the file Lestrade hands him. He shuddered a bit thinking how excited the world's one and only consulting detective would've been ecstatic to be solving this case. Remembering his old friend's scale, he decided that this case was at least an eight. _

"_Both victims had rusty nails shot into various areas of the head. The first victim had ten shot into her brain through the back of the skull. The blood was cleaned off of her, and she was placed on a park bench with a note on her that said, 'Let's count!'. The second victim, also female, had twelve lodged in her brain, same as the other. She was placed in a lounge chair by a community pool. Those are the only similarites we have, but we believe he or she will strike again. Most nail guns use this certain type of nail, and it's too general to come up with which type of gun the murder used. " _

"_And you don't know where or when?"_

"_No. We traced the records of the two girls and they were both students at the community college." he said carefully. _

_John continued to examine the file. Both girls had been juniors. The one course they had in common was Advanced Manufacturing. _

"_Lestrade, interview the students in this class. One of them must have known the girls, had something against them. You're probably looking for someone inventive, someone clever. Also, probably someone with a fetish, or OCD." the the three just looked at him, like how they used to stare at Sherlock._

"_How do you know all of that?"_

"_Lestrade, you're probably right that this person is a serial killer. The victims were in the same class and period, killed the same way, and also had been cleaned up. It says here in the report that the girls had been murdered in their homes, and no signs of struggle occured, meaning that they probably knew the intruder. Maybe a classmate or friend or profesor. The fact that the first victim had a note that stated 'Let's count!' on it, and how the second victim had precisely two more nails in her skull than the first indicates that it was on purpose. The second girl was the murder's second target. The murderer's going to keep adding more nails when he kills. I can't think of a reason, as he or she could just use the same number to kill each time, but he or she doesn't. They probably have a common case of OCD where there has to be continuous counting of something for fear that something bad will happen if one doesn't continue the cycle. This person probably has a rust fetish of some sort, considering they used rusty nails each time." He stops and just looks back at the officers. _

"_That's great, John. So we're looking for someone in their class and who is also handy when it comes to making things?" Sally questioned._

"_Sounds accurate to me. See, we're all making connections now." This was it. He had his chance to take something other than the safe, boring path. He had a real case. _

Since then, there had been four more murders. They were also students taking interest in the advanced manurfacturing course. John, Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson had all been able to figure out an older student was the killer, who as John predicted, added the amount of nails in increments of two for each new kill. Tonight was the night they were going to bust him before he was able to continue his vicious streak of slaughter, catch him, take him away. All went according to plan until he ran.

That's where John was now, chasing the murderer. The other detectives were on his heels, trying to keep up with John's surpsingly fast pace. James - the killer - wound his way through back alley ways, trying to be evasive as ever.

"Oi! Stop! You can't keep running!" John called, when all of a sudden he tripped on something. He crashed to the ground and looked to see the dreaded nail gun had been left there hastily, and John tripped over it. On top of that hee couldn't hear James running any more, and he felt as if all of this was just a part of the sick man's plan all along. Make sure his follower falls, loses his bearings. All so he wouldn't be caught. "Shit." He sighed. He heard the eery scrape of the murder weapon being dragged up off of the cement, and the tip of a nail being pressed to his head. He had been so close, but of course he'd been beaten.

"Sorry for this, but I guess you'll have to be next. It really does break my pattern though." The killer drawled, seeming to savor the moment. The loyal blogger stayed on the the ground, waiting for death. He glanced around hoping to see his commrades. No one. They'd been lost in the sea of buildings, trying so hard to follow. He felt James tighten his grip on the now signiture weapon, and he closed his eyes tight.

"I would suggest you put that down." A low, ragged voice called.

"What the-!" The killer was pulled off of John. The blogger turned around to see a long, fluttering waist coat as the mysterious man knocked the murderous kid unconcious. He emptied the nail gun of it's contents before calling out to Lestrade.

"You." He said it, and tried not to believe it. He got up and looked into those icy blue eyes before turning on his heel and running. Surely he'd gone mad, because Sherlock Holmes was dead, his best friend was dead.

"John! Stop!" Sherlock called. _'Not real, not real. Ignore it. Not real.' _John thought to himself as he ran, hearing once again, feet pounding against the pavement besides his own. Sherlock grabbed on to him, holding on tight, making the army doctor grind to a halt.

"You lied. You killed me." He turns and says to Sherlock, not denying it any longer.

"John let me expla-"

"No. You can't just come back and...and..." his vision blurred, and before he knew it he slumped to the hard, cold ground unconcious, overcome by what must've been shock. '_Sherlock.'_


	2. Rising From the Dead

He had been keeping track of John over the years. He had been busy untangled Moriarty's web of villians along with others, and it had taken him longer than he anticipated, which annoyed him greatly.

He was so astonished, and so proud of his friend for figuring out who the killer was in this last case. It had been a hard one too, probably at least an eight on his scale of importance. _'Nothing less than a seven, John.' _he smiled at the memory, but it quickly went away as he stalked along the rooftops, watching the mad chase. Lestrade and Donvovan soon fell behind the surpisingly (to them) speedy Doctor Watson. Sherlock knew how well built he really was, even if it didn't show often. He heard his dear blogger call out, "Oi! Stop! You can't keep running!" and scarily watched his friend on the planted weapon.

His heart raced as he watched the murderer circle around the dark alley way, and he knows John realizes it's too late, he's done for. Sure enough, James snatches the old nail gun, holding it to John Watson's skull.

Rage engulfed the detective. He had been working his hardest to keep his friend alive, help him move on with his delicate life, and yet the bastard murderer had ruined it all. There was no choice but to take this into his own hands. Sherlock swooped down a fire escape behind the two men, staying silent, eyeing his soon-to-be prey.

He approached James. "I suggest you put that down." he growled, kicking the nail gun out of his hand and yanking him off of John.

"What the-!" He sputtered, and tried to pary Sherlock's blows, which amused him. _'How cute.' _He thought as he landed a fierce blow to Jame's ribs and slammed his own forehead into the killer's, knocking him out cold.

"Lestrade! He's over here! He will be out for probably about half an hour, I suggest you hurry up!" he shouted, already hearing the approaching footsteps of the detective insepctor.

He turned to John, who's eyes were boring through him like he knew his own eyes tended to do to others.

"You." The man hissed, alarm showing in his body language. He watched his friend turn tail and start pounding back the way he came through the alleys, zigzagging, trying to shake Sherlock. _'Damn, he really is fast.' _ Sherlock was following, never taking his eyes off of the army doctor.

"John! Stop!" he screamed, but to seemingly no effect. He pushed himself and lunged, finally grabbing hold of his loyal friend. They skidded to a halt, almost toppling over. Sherlock steadied himself and the shorter man, waiting to see what would be John's next move.

"You lied. You killed me." John said, poison dripping from the words. Sherlock felt his breath catch. He did, didn't he? Killed his friend? He had been too blind and stupid to see what he had done to John. Literally, no, he wasn't dead, of course, but Sherlock knew excactly what he meant. His eyes fogged for a moment, but he blinked the salty tears away. Now was not the time.

"John let me expla-" He didn't even get to finish the words as the doctor cut him off.

"No. You can't just come back and...and..." his old friend stopped talking, and Sherlock rushed forward, stopping John's head from cracking on the hard cement as he fainted.

"John!" He quickly checked the doctor's pulse, and pulled him in close for a moment, brushing the hair off of his forehead. "John, you are so daft sometimes!" he knew he was basically talking to himself, but he knew he wouldn't be eventually. He scooped John up, wanting no one to come between them, wanting to slip stealthily back into 221B.

And so he did. He left he new crime scene with his friend haning limplessly across his shoulder. He dug the keys out of John's pocket and creeped into the flat. It smelled the same, it looked almost untouched. His experiments were gone, of course. But all of his papers, relics, artifacts, and personal possesions seemed to be timeless. He laid John on the old couch, and walked into the kitchen.

After returning with a cold, wet rag he started dabbing his blogger's forehead, hoping he'd wake soon.

"I missed you John. I've been keeping my sharp eyes on you. You were supposed to find out, but I couldn't let you die. It's always been my goal to keep you safe...I'm sorry for not noticing how much I've hurt you inside. I've hurt a lot too." He rambles, telling John things he wouldn't dare say if his friend were awake. Sherlock just wanted to get his feelings off of his chest, so he did. He went to the once cluttered kitchen to put the cloth away, sighing.

He returned, put a blanket over John and sat in his chair, watching.

John felt the damp cool feeling across his forehead. He didn't open his eyes, not wanting to see. He was so angry, and so lost. In the past he had been close to offing himself even, when things were that bad. He'd been abandoned, broken and battered by his best friend.

So when he heard Sherlock speak he was shocked. He didn't make any notion to show he was in fact, awake, but instead acted like the sleeping man Sherlock thought he was.

His eyes burned, and he kept them shut. He would not cry, would not reveal emotion. John calmed himself, relishing in the fact that Sherlock did not know that his old friend had heard every word he had just uttered, and that he would most likely, never forget.

I was going to go straight to the next part, also in John's view but I decided I wanted a tiny, little filler. Mwuahahhaa. Please comment, tell me what you think! I'll at least update tomorrow, if not later tonight, don't worry! :) Thanks for all the support, and favoriting! The next chapter will probably both of their points of view, but it will keep going, instead of showing a point of view as the same time as the other persons, like this one. - C


	3. The Blogger and the Consluting Detective

John decided it really was time to wake up. This whole situation had to be dealt with. He was done dozing off on the couch, so he opened his eyes and sat up, looking for Sherlock.

Sherlock was pleased to see John finally wake up, as he'd been sleeping for a few hours already. He stood up from where he sat at the table, glancing into a microscope. Stretching his long legs he walked over to his friend. He starts to smile to himself until he see's the look on John's face as he stands up.

Sherlock remembered what had transpired before John passed out in the alley way, and frowned. _'You lied. You killed me.' _The words flash through his mind and he scowls. He takes a step back from the angry blogger, and starts to speak.

"John, you have to let me expla-" he's hit so hard tears flood from his eyes. He for once, looks up at John, feeling pain shoot through his cheek and nose. Oh, yes. His nose was definitely broken, and he for sure had a black eye. John was fuming, and again, terrible phrases popped into his valuable mind, making everything more painful. '_Somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face I'd avoid your nose and your teeth too.' _

He swooped to his feet, and John started towards him again. _'This is going to be a long, long, night.'_ He thought.

John ignores the throbbing of his knuckles and the pounding of his head. Sherlock stands up, watching John with those damn eyes of his. He goes to him and shoves him against the wall, fiercely. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?" He screams, not caring who hears. He has Sherlock up by the collar and against the wall, getting right in his face. "Do you know how close I have come to just...just...ending my life? I've become _nothing_." His words are laced with venom, and he spits them into the detective's face.

"John-!" Sherlock attempts to speak, his voice quivering.

"NO! For once, something good had turned up. I started helping Lestrade, started to end this new case. And then you come along."

"John he would've killed you!" He pleads, wanting John to let him reveal how much danger John had really been in.

"I guess I would've welcomed it, Sherlock." He pulls Sherlock a bit off of the wall, and smashes him against it once more.

"John stop this! This is not necessary!" He states, seeing John ready to pummel him to a pulp. He shoves the army doctor way, seeing him stumble over the furinture. If he wanted to fight, then they'd just fight it out then.

John stumbles and stares at Sherlock. He runs at him, full speed. He is sweating, bleeding, pouring out anger, all at the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock charges at him too, and they collide. Two tsunamis crossing paths, leaving only destruction in their wake.

They wrestle, kick, and shout to each other after so much fury, sadness, and hysteria all escape from their prisons at the same time.

"John! You would've been shot! You and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade!" Sherlock grunts, trying to pin John down on the floor. He was strong, but he had sure as hell underestimated John's abilities due to the lack of seeing him fight.

"Why didn't you tell me!" John rolls quickly, pinning Sherlock to the ground now, his arm at the tall man's throat.

"I couldn't risk your safety you moron!" It was true. He had been busy demolishing his enemies, and if any of them had realized John knew he was alive, they would've used him against Sherlock. Just like before. He couldn't let that happen, to either of them, and so he did not tell John. "I've been keeping my eye on you John, I saw you at my grave. I did it because I care!" He wonders how many neighbors they have wakened by this time.

John grabbed Sherlock, trying to slide him into the couch, wanting him to feel pain. He wanted this man to feel what he had felt, and if he had to do it physically then so be it. In his attempt to toss Sherlock, the taller man grabbed John by his jumper, slamming them both against the small coffee table.

Sherlock put all of his weight against his flatmate, making sure his eyes bore into John's.

"Stop it. Stop this." His voice was still laced with frusturation, but he saw the defeat in John's eyes.

"I hate you." John whispered.

"John." He struggled against Sherlock's grasp, but the detective did not loosen his grip, or move his postion.

"I _hate _you." John felt his eyes start to burn again, and hated it. He wanted to hate Sherlock. He wanted him to go back and drop dead.

"_John." _It hurt. He had never cared if people called him 'freak' or 'psychopath'. He hadn't minded what people thought. He cared now though, and to hear his best friend say 'I hate you' with more emphasis each time, tore through him. His gut twisted, his head throbbed, and his heart ached. His cheeks were wet with tears, and he could not stop it.

"I HATE YOU." He screamed, and pushed against Sherlock's chest with all of his might, trying to be free from the tight hold he was in. He opened his eyes and saw Sherlock crying. Sherlock Holmes, crying. That's when he broke down. Sobs racked his body, and he clutched at his best friend's shirt.

Sherlock slid off of John, and pulled him close. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to, John. John, I am so sorry." He choked along with John, both of them a heaping, tearful mess on the sitting room floor.

John cried into Sherlock, letting everything go. His flatmate was alive, and he was glad. He felt Sherlock's hands dig into his back, making them impossibly closer. "I missed you, Sherlock."

"I missed you, John." he whispered through the flood overcoming his eyes. "I missed you, so much." It felt good to be with his blogger again. As they got their feelings - _ugh _- out, Sherlock figured that everything, would finally be okay.

Yay! So, there's the big fight! I really appreciate all of the favoritng and following of this story, and I'd love more comments! Hope you like it! It's not the last chapter, but I'm stil brainstorming! Ooooh, mabye something with Lestrade will pop up! - C


	4. A Warning

John hadn't noticed how Sherlock looked until after their fight. Once his vision had cleared he noticed the hair first. It was shorter, and light brown. He wore fitted jeans and tan leather shoes, not that different from John's old pair. He wore a maroon colored long sleeved shirt, and a black leather jacket. He'd looked even closer to find that the detective had been wearing green colored contacts. Despite the disguise, he was still the tall and lanky sarcastic man he had grown to know.

They sat now discussing why Sherlock had to jump that dreadful day, and other things related to the issue. John was just trying to talk through it, hold back more tidal storms of emotion, and listen to what the consulting detective had to say.

"...and so you had to jump because Jim killed himself? Because you couldn't figure out the word to call them off if he was dead?"

"Correct."

"So you did it, to keep us safe?"

"Yes, John."

"Wait...who else knew? Surely Molly did. I can figure that out."

"Yes, Molly had to help with the body switching and such. Mycroft found out a few months ago and that was...peculiar." Sherlock states, remembering the encounter with his older sibling. It had been a gloomy afternoon, and Sherlock had stopped into his favorite cafe for a quick snack, he'd needed his energy that day.

_Sherlock paid for his scone and coffee, turned around, and bumped into the slightly taller man behind him. _

"_Sor-" He stopped, and looked Mycroft Holmes in the eyes. They were filled with disbelief for a brief second before clouding over to reveal nothing. He cleared his throat, and nodded, knowing his brother would follow him around the corner. _

"_Sherlock Holmes. How nice to see you agin, dear brother." He said, glancing at his fingernails, and then back to his younger sibling. _

"_As it is to see you, Mycroft. Shall I explain?" he sighed, sipping at his warm drink. _

"_If you would." he stated in that icy-Mycroft drawl. _

So he had. He had told Mycroft the true story of what happened on the roof, and he noticed how uncomfortable his brother had been the entire time.

"_What is troubling you, Mycroft?"_

"_Sherlock...I must say that I am sorry. A big portion of this whole catastrophe is my doing."_

"_How so?" He said, already deducing, but wanting to hear the words emerge from the British Government's mouth. He narrowed his eyes, and watched Mycroft squirm where he stood._

"_I...I exchanged information with James Moriarty to get facts and data I needed. I had to tell him about you to open him up. That is how his story was so...accurate. I am truly sorry for inconvieniencing you." He finished, keeping his emotions tightly tucked away. _

"_I see." Was all Sherlock Holmes said as he stormed away from his brother, quivering with disgust at the costly mistake. They could talk about such matters another time and place._

Sherlock snapped back to harsh reality, and continued inspecting John. He could still see how much his blogger hurt, how confused he was, how much he weas trying to control it. He sat with straight posture, his face wiped clean of any feelings. He was trying to be the strong miliarty man, and not be weak. It was all Sherlock could do to not point out he could see everything in the man's eyes, but he kept it to himself.

"Sherlock?" John questions almost silently.

"Yes, John?

"Why couldn't you tell me? I mean I guess I can figure most of it out but...damn. This is all just really, really hard." He sighs, looking down at his lap, twiddling his fingers. Sherlock feels a pang of guilt once more, and he wanted to eradicate it. He wanted to scoop up all of this trouble, all of these hurtful notions, and just destroy them. Instead, he took a deep breath to keep his cool and he spoke to John.

"For your safety. I wasn't concerned about others, because I'm obviously closest to you. Yes, Moriarty is dead but his whole empire of villians is not. I have been working on destroying it, piece by piece and one by one. Just imagine John, if they found out you knew I was alive. Let's say one of them would want information about me, my wareabouts, my actions. They would take you probably, and hurt you until I came running. It would be very troublesome and tedious for us both. I couldn't let it happen. I've wanted you to be safe, John. So of course I followed you last night chase. Do you know what it'd do to me if you were actualy de-" He stopped himself. He'd already been rambling far too much, and John got the point. He didn't have to go on and spark more sentiment and pain.

"I know exactly what it'd do to you." John says, looking at Sherlock's mask start to crumble. He thought about what Sherlock had said, and it made sense. He almost didn't want to ask his next few questions, but he did. "Who else is left? In Moriarty's web or empire, I mean. Are we safe?" He asks a little to eargerly. He needed to know if they were safe. The possibility of losing Sherlock again was unbearable, even if at the moment he wanted to hate the man unconditionally.

"There are a few. I...I am most worried about Sebastian Moran. He was Jim Moriarty's number two man, and he's very dangerous. He gets his hands dirty." He tells his friend. If he had to scared of someone even the slightest, it'd be Sebastian. He knew that the vicious man had been John's assigned sniper, and it shook him to the core. Not that he'd admit that to his faithful blogger. Knowing John he'd be able to tell regardless anyways.

"Ah. I remember reading about him, when we were doing research once. He is very dangerous as you say. Very...unpredictable. Sherlock, do you hear that beeping? Is it your phone?" John noticed the faint sound coming from behind Sherlock, perhaps from the bookshelf they had used so much. It was eery to him, and familiar, but he just couldn't seem to place it. He watched Sherlock pick up on the reoccuring beep.

"Now I do." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stood up abruptly. He took long strides to the shelf behind him, picking through the old novels, encyclopedias, and case files. There, wedged between two dusty books he finds a note and a very small webcam. How long it'd been there he didn't know, but from the amount of dust on it, perhaps only a couple days. He glances down to read the short note, written in a quick, legible scrawl.

_That was such a heart warming reunion, really. My kind of reunion if you ask me. So I guess you've finally heard the beeping...it's a present, sending my regards to you and John. _

_You know what? Scratch the part about the present. It's a warning. _

_Seb. Moran_

"No..." Sherlock had little time to scoff at the irony of the note he currently read and what they had been talking about only moment before, and as he looked closer he recognized the device that sang the repetitive beeping. "JOHN!" He turned, and ran at his flatmate, lunging across him and pushing them both over the back of the worn armchair as the flat erupted in noise and fire.

Sebastian Moran smiled from his rooftop perch as 221B exploded, the flames eating hungrily at the homey flat. Just the way he liked it. Oh, Sherlock would regret what he did to Jim. He'll regret tearing down the web of accomplices he had gradually built up steadily over time. He was playing his own game with the detective this time, and Johnny boy would be a great pawn to play with in his devious games.

He grinned again, and put out his cigarette. Lazily, he walked down the stairs from the roof out on to the now crowded street below, avoiding the flaming building. He knew he wouldn't have to come to Sherlock, he'd come to him. He'd said so after all.

_So there you have it, I know it's not that good. I've had serious writers block and I guess this is just kind of another filler. I'll try and update faster next time, and make it better, promise. I love all comments, reviews, favoriting, generally all the support. Thanks, tell me what you think as it will greatly be considered! - C


	5. Broken

They got down just as the sharp _boom _of the bomb exploded and destroyed their home within seconds. The smoke was overwhelming, and he and John needed to get out. He rolled off of the army doctor who was thankfully still awake, and lay next to him belly down on the floor.

"John. We need to get out of here. Ready to make a mad dash to the stairs?" he says urgently, panic starting to make a home in his chest. John nods to him, and glances down the hall.

"When I say go, all right?" John replies, his voice clear and hard.

Sherlock didn't question him, but also gave a shook of his head to tell him he understood. He trusted him, and knew he had expertice in this kind of thing. They were an unstoppable duo, he thought.

"GO!" John yelled, and heaved himself off of the floor, Sherlock on his heels. They raced down the stairs almost falling, and stumbled half blind out of the door and into the street. The detective looked up and had noticed that the bomb had been strategically placed so only their flat would be affected. He knew all the other tennants of the building were milling about around them, including Mrs. Hudson. There were already firefighters there and armed with the strong, pressurized hoses, already dousing the flames that had refused to quit. He heard John hyperventilating, and went to his friend.

"John. John, breath." He grabbed John's shoulders and looked at him. He sighed and pulled out his phone, dialing his brother. He kept a watchful eye on the road, having guessed a sleek, government vehicle would already be on the way.

"**Sherlock? I've sent a car. It will take you to my estate." **

"Thank you. I was just calling to check." Sherlock hung up the call, and kept in contact with John. Once he glanced up again he pulled the shaky man with him to the black vehicle and got inside. As soon as the door was closed shut the car moved, and headed to it's destination.

Sebastian knew that they would make it out. They were smart enough, trained enough. It was really only a beginning move in this intricate game, and he had many more to play. He paced around in his flat, wondering where he'd find the great consulting detective and his pet next. He had a few ideas, and kept them relevant, as one should consider every possible play, move, action, and detail when toying with one's prey. That's what Jim told him two days before the fall. He hissed in anger and stopped his pacing, and chucked the glass he was holding at the wall. It shattered, became unfixable and he felt content knowing that's what Sherlock would be like after he was done with him. Broken.

This will be my last update for a few days! I'm heading off to California on a school trip, and I don't have a laptop :( I know this was incredibly short, but I need to get to bed soon. Sorry, but I promise I'll make a million chapters when I get back! I love the support, comments and critisicism are always VERY welcome! Thank you for reading my story! - C


	6. Another Type of Attack

Sherlock peered at John during the entire length of the car ride to Mycroft's estate. The army doctor was sweating fighting to control his rapid breathing. Sherlock had his suspicions of what was happening to his friend, and he didn't like the idea of it being reailty. He knew it was more scarring than the reoccuring nightmares John used to have. It was like living in one, reliving the pain of years past.

"John." He said louder than usual, needing his friend's attention. Despite his efforts the man still had his eyes pryed to the views of winding roads outside of the window. He was starting to shake, and his fists clenched in retaliation. Sherlock glanced outside the window and let out a slight breath of relief as he realized the were plundering down the long gravel driveway.

The sleek black vehicle pulled away as soon as the two flatmates stepped out of it. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him along to the study where he knew Mycroft would be waiting. He could feel the sweat through John's light jumper and he tried to keep a straight face, hide his panic.

"MYCROFT!" the detective yelled from the foyer. Given John's condition, there wouldn't be time to visit his dear brother just yet. "Mycroft!" he tried again, his attempts futile. "John, follow me." he briskly walked down the marble hallways and turned left. Ah, there it was. They stepped into the rarely used elevator and went up to the third floor and stepped out to tread across plush expensive rugs. Of course Mycroft Holmes would have the need to be surround by plush things as the man was quite plush himself. He snickered and continued to lead John to the guest room.

Once they arrived John gasped at the luxerious space. There was a king size bed with a extravagant wooden canopy, with heavy maroon comforters and pillows draped lazily about it. The floor it self was covered in a soft carpet, that matched the fine olive green color on the walls greatly. There were two modern looking, yet old couches seated by a large fireplace, and a ceiling high window looked out at the acre of lavish land supporting the exaggerated estate.

John tried to make his way to what seemed like the bathroom as he was a wreck. Not only was he overly warm, sweaty, and shaky, but he was also nausious. He heard a faint ringing in his ears along with deafening roars that he thought he left behind. He collapsed to the floor, loling on his back.

"Sher..." was all he managed to say before he was taken over by memory. He should've seen it coming, but he had been too dumb to notice the panic attack that overwhelmed him now. He wasn't laying on soft carpet anymore, but on harsh, dirty terrain that dug into his back. He heard voices he hadn't heard in years, and he tried his hardest to drown them out.

_Their cries filled his ears as he came to. His head throbbed, and he huffed at the fact that he'd hit his head on a rather sharp rock. _

"_Captain!" _

"_Man DOWN!" Man down? Oh, he was down. He was being restrained as he was apparently fighting to get up, to get away from this crowded situation. He fought to wriggle free and there it was. His eyes stung and he clenched his teeth. His shoulder was on fire. His shoulder was on fire and some bloody _idiot _was trying to find the damned bullet and dig it out. _

"_Stop! Get off! You'll only make it WORSE!" he screamed, shoving the man off of him. The soldier had been untrained as a medic, and with shaky hands he had tried to get the metal shell out of the Captain's new wound. More blood leaked from the new jagged cuts and he swore as he grabbed bandages. Damn them all. _

Sherlock was making his way to the little pantry when he heard the blogger thump on the ground behind him. His eyes were wide, and they wore a glassy look to them.

"Sherl..." he heard the man sputter before falling silent.

"John! John, I'm right here!" he dropped to his knees besides his friend and put his hands on his shoulders to hold him down. He was thrashing unbelievably hard and Sherlock was being exposed to the strength of John Watson once, again. It was all he could do to not try and shake John awake. Sherlock knew this would pass, but at the moment he hated seeing his friend go through this. Not only was it probably realistically painful for John, but Sherlock also knew his friend would hate seeimng so weak. It was a trait they both shared, fear of being portrayed as weak. Simple. Delicate. Anything opposing to what they really were. "John!" he shouted again. He hoped this fiasco would end soon.

_He whimpered a bit as the new hole that tore through his muscle. Soon enough he heard a familiar voice calling out to him. 'John! John!'. His brow furrowed as he tried to think why Sherlock would be here. _

"_Sherlock! Get down!" He called as the last thing he wanted was Sherlock to actually die. Something shakes him, hard, but no one's around. Suddenly he is nowhere, and he's beeen suffocated. He can't breath...can't...breath..._

Sherlock shook him harder than before, seeing as John was finally starting to hear him. How ridicioulous for John to imagine Sherlock up on the battle field with him. Careful to avoid the blogger's scarred shoulder he jostled him, needing for him to wake.

John gasped and blinked furiously, his heart pounding. He wasn't in Afghanistan, he was at Mycroft's mansion with Sherlock. He closed his eyes to stop his eyes from watering, and noticed strong hands pinning him down.

"Sherlock."

"John. Are you back with me?" the detective questioned carefully.

"Yes. Please stop holding me down."

"Oh, right, yes. Sorry. Have you had panic attacks before?"

"Only a couple. This one was a hell of a lot worse than the others though." He sat up and rubbed his shoulder, trying to relieve the burning sensation. Even though he knew he hadn't been shot all over again, he was still internally relieved to see no blood, no split skin.

"John, please come sit down. I'll make tea." Sherlock pulled him to the couch and went to prepare the warm, soothing drink.

John mumbled, "Thanks." and sat on the comfortable sofa. He blinked again, trying to hold back actual tears, and felt his cheeks redden. How embarrassing, to make Sherlock witness something like that, and how incredibly stupid at how he was still trying not to wince in pain. Pathetic.

"Here. Drink it, but not too fast. Well, I guess you'd have more sense than normal people given you're a skilled doctor, yes?" Sherlock rambled, taking slight sips of his tea as well. John wouldn't make eye contact with Sherlock, and he stared at him for a moment before sliding a bit closer to his friend. "John. I do hope you know you shouldn't feel bad about this right? I'd like to think you still consider me a close friend, and that you don't have to hide around me." He didn't add that John wouldn't be able to hide anyways, but kept his gaze fixed on the doctor.

"Yeah, I guess. It's just all of this...I don't know. My shoulder is really hurting and I hate seeming so idiotic." He sighed a shuddery breath before taking another drink of the hot tea.

"Not to worry, John. You are far from idiotic, and it is okay to feel pain. It doesn't make you 'wimpy' as you say. Anyways, we have important matters to attend to. I do believe we should go find Mycroft. We'll stay here for a while first though. You need it." Sherlock stated before walking over to the strong wood desk and opening the spare laptop. He would give John his privacy as he did his work. He was just relieved that the attack was over.

John gathered himself from the couch and went to the bathroom to rinse his face. His temperature was starting to lower along with his heart rate and he eventually calmed down before alerting Sherlock that he was ready.

The two friends walked side by side out of the spacious room toward the office Mycroft practically lived in. Two flatmates, always together through thick and thin.

'_Good. That's the way I like it.' _Sebastian thought as he watched the feed from the camera before it zipped away into darkness. He didn't care that the battery had died on his watching instrument. It was all he needed to see to get him back in the thrill of his plan. To him, it wasn't fair John got his mate back, and he didn't. The stronger they were together the easier it'd be to tear apart the other due to the opposite's apparent danger. He laughed as he contemplated capturing John or Sherlock first. They both knew how to fight well, and he admired that, lusted for it., a good fight. In the end though, it'd be a fight for life as one of them would be drained of it when he was done, possibly after a torture session. Yes, he was so sick after losing his partner in Crime. Sick with hatred, regret, and fury. Sick with bloodlust and sorrow, sick with madness and creation. He loved it, embraced it, just as Moriarty had. He chuckled again and went to pack his things for the long days ahead.

_Okay, so I know it's not the greatest. And I know it's taken me forever to update. I am so sorry, I reallllly am! I hope you'll still take the time to enjoy this, and I'll promise to try and get better at updating! Comments and all types of support are loved! - C _


	7. A Little Tease

Sebastian paced around his new living space. He'd been planning on staying here for a bit, to keep a watchful eye on his new game pieces. The fit man finally sat down on the dingy couch, drumming his fingers along the arm rest as he flittered from thought to thought. _'Take John and make Sherlock come? I could just take him, let him go, take him, let him go. That'd sure play with the mighty detective's sureness in himself. Or maybe I could throw in some torture...but that'd be no fun. John Watson is an army man, he'd know a lof my techniques. Perhaps snatching Sherlock and going through some treacherous things with him would work. Both men would put up a fight though. Hmm.' _He smiled as he thought, pondering what would be the best starting move, the first play, a dangerous (but the least dangerous) action to get things moving.

After finally deciding on an idea that outshone all the others, he grabbed his coat and walked out of the convenient flat. It seemed that from his location, he would have enough time to make sure all the details and aspects of his new plan were in place. As he stepped outside he glanced a long way down the road to the glistening white mansion. He hummed as he turned around and headed to the hardware store. _'Let's see. Some rope, cutters, nails, hammer. Just the basics for now.' _ After that little snippet of thought he laughed out loud, and that laughed echoed throughout the posh neighborhood. The laugh was full of excitement, threat, and envy. It was untamable, uncontrollable, and Sebastian Moran just kept on thrusting the hideous laughter out into the air. He'd be the one to have the last laugh, if it was the last thing he did.

"I warned you. You should've been more careful."

"Do shut up, brother." Sherlock sneered, and crossed his arms against his chest. John sighed next to him, full aware of the sibling rivalry already pushing the two Holmes brothers into a fight.

"How can you say that after you both almost blew up! It was dangerous enough watching John, but then you go and save him and instead of trying to convince him it was a dream, you go and chase after him! You've been home a _week _and you've already compromised your and John's safety!" Mycroft cut his ramble short and glared at his younger brother, acting nonchalant as if nothing happened. But Mycroft could see. He could see the fear, betrayal, defeat, and worry all captured in the colorful iris' that belonged to Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft tutted and dusted off his jacket before setting his gaze back on the two reunited flatmates.

Sherlock seethed as he heard Mycroft speak. He knew he messed up. He messed up in the alley, messed up when they got back to the flat. It was unbelievably ridiculous that Sherlock had made so many mistakes. He tapped his foot and stood up abruptly.

"I know, Mycroft! _I know_." He paced, his hands wildly combing through his hair. He needed to send a message. Something to throw off his opponent. He jumped triumphantly as he thought of the perfect warning. He secretly accepted the possibility that this just might make Moran more likely to snap and attack, and discarded it just as quickly. No matter what he'd stay safe, with or without Mycroft Holme's help. He'd keep him and John safe.

John looked at Sherlock curiously. He didn't want to admit he was shaky from the day's most recent events and even a bit shaky knowing he was back in this battlefield with his flatmate. Running through London at night in the middle of a case, unconcerned for their wellbeing, and just throwing themselves into any scuffle. At the same time he relished it, this feeling of excitement and danger. The feeling of being someone, having a purpose. It was so relieving and exhilarating, and John Watson allowed himself to really grin for the first time in almost a year.

Sebastian returned home with all of his necessities, whistling to himself. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and threw his coat on the sofa as he deposited his bags on the kitchen table. He turned around and for this first time in a long while he was shocked. His things were scattered everywhere, and his most favorite pieces of weaponry lay scattered in chunks as they had been undone, and emptied. The bubbling pit of anger within him grew even stronger as he saw the terrible graffiti that was sprayed lazily across the wall. _'Ah ah ah ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.' _

He screamed as he gave in to the taunt. Not only was that Jim's old ringtone but it was a tease. Sherlock Holmes was bent on 'stayin' alive'. He was so sure of his capabilities that he came and decided to roll the dice and start the game himself with this little move. If this is what he wanted, he'd get it. The rough man started picking up the pieces to his guns and thought hard about how exactly he was going to take John Watson away from the world's loneliest consulting detective.

This is a teaser, and I'll update again on what actually happens tomorrow or the next day, much sooner than this! I'm sorry for the wait, and I thank you all for adding my story to alerts and favoriting, as well as comments! The support is lovely, and since I'm finally done with three final projects I will update and write more! Promise! I know this isn't the longest or greatest, but I hope you still enjoy it! Take ALL my love! Okay? Just take it! -C


	8. The Stolen Blogger

It was easy really. He had one of his old friends tag along with him, knowing the good ol' Doctor Watson wouldn't simply hand himself over. Sebastian looked over across the room where John sat tied to a chair, bruises starting to swell and bloom across his left shoulder, where he had started the first of his toying. The man was half awake, still trying to fight off the wounds that had just landed a home on his body, while also trying to be rational. Sebastian Moran laughed at his attempts and sat across from the man, running a few nails between his calloused fingertips, relishing his recent advance in the intricate game.

_John sat in his plush chair, typing away on his laptop. Sherlock was out on an errand and he really had not much to do as the flat had already been cleaned. They had known they were taking risks with separating and so the great detective didn't leave until he felt they were both prepared. _

_The army doctor's trusted gun was tucked into the waist of his trousers, and he had a syringe handy containing a sedative that would put an elephant in a deep trance. John had cursed Sherlock for having such drugs always on hand but the argument ended as quickly as it came, only to most likely resurface in the future. _

_There was a slight creak from the door to the flat below, and John stopped typing. He shut the computer and laid it on the table next to him. Silence. Standing swiftly he pulled his gun out and held it up as he peered around the corner. He wanted to kick himself as that was his first mistake. He was grabbed from behind, his handgun ripped from his grip. 'Ah, there must be two. One to be the distraction and the other to get dirty. Clever.' he guessed as he fought against the arms holding him down. _

_When the blogger had finally adjusted to the situation he realized he was looking into the cold hard eyes of Sebastian Moran. An army man, a sniper, trained to kill. John Watson had growled when he spun out of his bonds and landed a quick kick to Moran's ribs. A hiss escaped his enemy but he didn't give up as easily John had secretly hoped. From then on they tossed each other about, punches being easily served, one after the other. John fought and fought against this man. He knew the rough villain was getting a bit winded and he mercilessly attacked Sebastian. _

_That was until the second crook had found the syringe and plunged it deep into John's arm. Bloodied and shocked, the strong Doctor Watson fell into a deep sleep. _

Sebastian knew John would give in more if he acted tired. Would forget about _his_ secondhand man. It was all a part of the plan and older man had simply walked into the trap that had been set for him. Now he sat, observing John as he still fought for hope, and struggled against the rope holding him back.

"Doctor Watson. I do think your attempts are worthless and stupid. You're only hurting yourself more. Then again, continue if you wish. You'll leave this room more pained than you are now, I promise." Sebastian continued with rolling the smooth nail across his fingers. Noticing the spark of fear that finally was catching in John's eyes. Oh, Sherlock would come very soon. Just on schedule, he would. He'd follow the game's path, rolling the dice until he reached his destination. Until he reached and rescued John Watson.

"Go to Hell." The doctor spat, eyes narrowing. Moran raised an eyebrow at the sudden outburst, and grinned.

"I have to finish my job first. After that, well, doctor's orders! Until I finish...let's entertain ourselves shall we?" and with that he grabbed the nail and plunged it into the man's good shoulder, loving the gritty tactic and the scream that followed it, and always would.

Sherlock should've known Sebastian wouldn't take John down by himself, the blogger was too strong for that. The great detective stood up from where he was examining the footprints that had left their impression in the thin layer of dust that covered the wooden floor. One would think it was only one man that had came into the flat, as only one shoe size was revealed from observation of the tracks. Of course, if you observed more like Sherlock Holmes did, you'd discover a few sets of the prints were uneven, and lopsided. Obviously the shoes in this set were too big for the man that wore them (yes a man). The other set had been even, showing the owner of them would have no trouble squabbling with someone as they were a perfect fit. All in all, there had been two men, not one.

He looked around their flat and knew Mrs. Hudson (The woman had heard the fighting and then the explosion. She got out of the building in time to see her boys drive away to the eldest Holmes' estate. She decided she'd go visit her sister for a week, to cope with this situation, and still wasn't back yet) would be in a right state when she'd see the mess. A bit of blood spattered here and there - no doubt from John's hard punches - scuffed up floor, some pieces of broken glass. Sherlock glanced around once again before thinking to himself, '_John must've really fought hard. Of course he would._' For a few moments the detective stood there, wandering through his mind palace and swimming in his thoughts.

Suddenly the tall lanky man ran from where he stood and escaped out of the door. Once again, thanks to his mind palace, he was able to remember a very important detail. He had remembered how the first day he and John had been driven to Mycroft's mansion he had noticed a vacant flat for rent. After coming home in the same vehicle a few days later, he had seen that the house was now occupied. It was too suspicious not to notice, and with that he clung to that piece of information as he hailed a cab.

He growled the address to the startled cabbie as he hopped in. It was too easy, but of course it was. Sebastian wanted him to find John, who most likely was probably being hurt right at this moment, being toyed with. Sherlock frowned, and thought hard. He was angry at how stupid he had been, angry with how slow it was taking to get to his friend. As he sat in silence ignoring the cabbie's attempts at conversation he decided on something. He was going to get John home, and then, he was going to end Sebastian Moran.

John's throat was raw from the internal scream that had burst from him. He looked down at his shoulder where the nail was still lodged. The army doctor clenched his teeth together, trying to stifle another outburst that would no doubt give Moran the satisfaction he wanted. But then John had a thought : what would it take to give this hardened man satisfaction? His partner in crime was gone, and as much as he tortured or provoked someone...would he ever be satisfied? He shuddered and winced as the slight tremor tweaked his right shoulder. He let his chin fall to his chest as his thought about the damage to the muscles from the nail, the scars from the cuts and bruises.

"You really miss him, don't you? Don't have anyone to kill now that no one's telling you to, eh?" John prodded, feeling like he had nothing to lose.

"Keep your mouth shut or I'll drive another nail in you. And that's just the start." Sebastian retorted, eyes flaming and fists clenching.

"What do I care? Sure you can keep doing this to me but in the end it'll do you no good. You'll always be alone, Sebastian Moran." John said in a low voice. In response Sebastian yelled in frustration and left the dank room. Still tied to the chair with blood dripping down his arm, John Watson smiled. He heard the screech of tires and grinned even more. This was just another precaution they had taken, had practiced.

"_John."_

"_Yes?"_

"_If you get hurt, taunt him. Distract him, do anything you can. It will slow him down so I can find you, because he'll most likely take you first." Sherlock looked at him hard, needing to know John would take his word and trust what he was told to do._

"_Okay, Sherlock, I got it." The blogger replied with honesty. He understood the idea of distraction, and if he needed to, he'd use it. He watched Sherlock shoot him a grin from the door and he smiled as well. "And get some damn milk, would you?" he shouted down to the detective, who would surely forget anyways. He got no response and the door slammed shut. Sillily shaking is head he continued to type away on his computer. _

He tried to relax his muscles, let the stress go because he knew that was Sherlock outside. The flatmates both knew Sebastian thought he was on top but really, he wasn't. With that last thought he just sat and listened, waiting for the pains to subside as the frustrated man let off steam in the room down the hall from his.

_Okay, I know. I'm terrible, haven't updated in FOREVER. Well shoot you know I had some mean writer's block and my grandma went to the hospital and sports and final projects and tests and okay just screw it all the chapter is here now okaaay! I'm sorry! But I hope you get an email or something saying this story's been updated and you get that excited feeling in your tummy like I do with all 20 billion of the stories I'm following. I will try to update faster (I'll actually try to update with in a week this time!) and please, keep reading, share it, favorite, comment. All support is welcomed and loved! Thanks for sticking with this! I hope you like it! - C _


	9. Hopelessly Crazy

Sherlock pushed the door opened, and frowned when the heavy door let out an annoying creak. It didn't seem to matter though, as it sounded like Sebastian was making enough noise himself. He could hear the smashing of glass and the pounding on the walls, as if he was trapped. Sherlock smirked as he knew what was getting to the man. It was fulfilling to have his and John's plan work so well. They had the distraction and that's all that they'd need to escape the situation. It was that same moment Sherlock realized why their enemy was losing his mind the next wall over. John had yes, used their idea but that had to mean John got hurt.

And so the tall pale man crept silently up the hallway, occasionally rapping on the wall in series of threes, starting to get desperate to find John. To his relief he heard the faint tap-tap in response, leading him to his blogger. When the tapping was loudest he opened the heavy dark door to his right and gasped when his eyes finally adjusted to the very dark lighting, even though he was expecting it.

He ran to him and hastily sliced at the ropes with his pocket knife until they ripped apart, falling to the floor around the bloodied chair. John was looking at the detective as he backed away to get a good look at the mess he'd made. Sherlock grew very, very angry as he saw how purple the left shoulder of John Watson was, and almost screamed when he saw the _nail _that was plunged deep into what was the army doctor's good shoulder. He hesitantly took a few steps closer to John.

"John?" his voice was so small, so silent that John almost missed it.

"Mm?"

"Do I take it out?" John looked down at his shoulder, most likely measuring the blood flow - which was little now - and how deep the nail was. With a pause, he finally nodded.

"Yes. I don't seem to be losing that much blood anymore, and I've seen things like this. It shouldn't gush or anything if it's removed. But you have to be quick, Sherlock. Like ripping off a bandaid." The urgent John Watson whispered as hushed as he could. He was anxious to get out of this dank place, and just go home with no interruptions for a while. With a groan he shook his head as he remembered they still had to contact Lestrade and tell them Sherlock wasn't gone. They'd have to take some time and actually discuss matters with their landlady as soon as she got back. So many things to do, so many distractions!

John watched Sherlock place three fingers around the flat of the nail, gripping it as much as he could. Those cold eyes looked into John's if to give warning, before he mouthed in silence, "Three...two..." and he yanked before the one had even been uttered. John started to yelp, and then a long, thin hand was shoved against his face to stop any more noise. The two flatmates looked at each other and then at the door. The thrashing from the other room had subsided, leaving only an eery silence that revealed the sounds of slow, paced footsteps creeping towards the very room there were in.

'_Damn.' _John thought, letting his rigid body sag back into his chair. He'd get up when he needed to.

Sebastian paused behind the door, finally letting his breaths escape. The ragged pants would be heard by the two men inside and he didn't care. They'd probably heard the footsteps too. He squared his shoulders and rolled his neck. With a satisfying _crack_ he finished stretching, and kicked in the door.

"Well, well, well! Isn't this a nice, well I guess it's not really a surprise now, is it?"

"No it's not. Neither is you pulling this demented stunt." The detective chirped in.

"Now, now. You started this, Sherlock. With your little note. Cute." He took a step closer to the two men as he traced his knife blade across his fingertips lightly. To Sebastian, it sounded liked Sherlock let out a growl and he smiled. "Growl all you like, it won't help you." His voice was hardened now, serious. Two sets of blue eyes stared right through him, and he could've sworn Sherlock's would turn black any second. The blogger was frightening himself. With dim lighting you could see traces of dirt and blood smeared across him, with shadows cast across his eyes. Yes, very frightening...to anyone else.

"You're a complete nutter!" John exclaimed to the crazed man that stood there, still toying with the knife.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes and lost it. Just completely and utterly lost it.

It all happened at once. John flipped sideways out of his chair as the tall lanky detective tackled Moran, only to land on the knife that Sebastian still wielded as he fell. John scrambled over to the other two and his learned instincts came alive. He kicked the blade out of Sebastian's hand, probably breaking at least three fingers. Next he landed a foot on his ribcage, cracking maybe one, two ribs. _"He's ours now. This is over." _ John thought as he landed his final blow on the straight nose, knuckles connecting hard. He heard Sherlock mumble something behind him.

"Lestrade, now!" It was hushed and slurred due to Sherlock's decreasing strength. John hurriedly ripped a piece of fabric from his t-shirt and blindfolded and tied his wrists together. John ran over to Sherlock and panic rose in his chest as he saw the wound.

"John, I'm fine! Don't look so bewildered."

"Sherlock, you do realize you just got stabbed and that you are just _pouring _blood right now, correct?"

"Of course, John. Don't be so daft." His eyes started close until he felt the stinging slap to his face. "John!"

"You know the drill, don't close your eyes. We're getting out of here, I mean he's..." John stopped short as he heard the clinking of metal and a couple short clicks. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had just handcuffed the gruff man.

"Greg?"

"Hello, John. Nice to see you again. It's been a little while since the nail gun case."

"Oh, um, yes it has. Sherlock i-"

"Oh do hush, John. It's not even that deep." The blogger and the inspector both shared looks of _what the actual fuck _and Lestrade spoke into his walkie-talkie.

"Need an ambulance, out side of the scene. Quick, thanks."

"But how did you- When Sherlock ju-"

"John, I told Lestrade a week ago! I knew we'd...need his assistance." Sherlock huffed, and pressed his scarf against the bleeding wound.

"Right, of course he did." John sighed and helped Sherlock apply pressure to the stab. "You know you have to stay in the hospital, right?"

"But John! You're a doctor! I hate hospitals." Sherlock's eyes widened and narrowed as he spit the words.

"Sherlock, you are a grown man. And it will only be a night at the most, so just deal with it!" John and Sherlock sighed and waited for the medical staff to arrive in the ambulance. Lestrade just gave them a few weird looks before checking around the rest of the flat with his crew.

"What should we do with him?" John whispered, suddenly very, very tired.

"Oh, I've got an idea. It's very general, and it helps that Mycroft has power. I think the most secure prison will keep this man entertained."

"Sounds fine with me."

"Of course it does." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Where better to put a criminal?

The two flatmates sat in silence, never taking their eyes off of the crumpled heap across from them.

_OMG I THOUGHT I POSTED THIS ALREADY HOLY CRAP I AM SO SORRY AAH. How could I have not noticed? Thanks for all of the positive feedback, and for still sticking with the story. I'm thinking maybe one more chapter? I'm kinda losing this one, want it to end. UNLESS. Some of you don't want it to and if you want you could give me prompts for another chapter or something. Otherwise, I'M ENDING IT SOOO thank you for everything! :) I will be writing more, and I think I will start writing drabbles if you all start sending me prompts! It can be Johnlock (NO erotic stuff I swear to god you guys NO) or not or anything Sherlock. If you want to request. You don't have to. (but you should..) enjoy, and again, THANKS! :3 - C_


	10. The End?

John chuckled as he sat on the examining table. As the doctor disinfected a few of the bigger cuts and put a few stitches into his newest shoulder wound, John could hear the arguing coming from the hallway.

"He is completely ridiculous!"

"He'll be gone tomorrow, can you just do your job for now?"

"No! Get another nurse, I won't do it!"

John thanked the doctor after he handed him some medical supplies and finished with his work. He opened the room door and walked down the hall, the shouting having subsided a bit. The man came across the two staff that had been arguing and spoke up.

"Excuse me, but I'm a doctor and I could take care of him. I'm sorry he is so difficult, but he really hates hospitals. Don't take it personally."

They exchanged glances as if to just accept the offer, regardless if he was telling the truth about his past profession, but the head doctor spoke up.

"Can I see some proof? I can't just let anyone in to care for a patient." His mouth spoke the words but his eyes said, 'Get anyone to shut this man up and make him cooperate!'

"Of course." John pulled out his wallet and his old I.D. Card he'd used when he was still in the service. The two exchanged looks and gave him curt nods when they realized this man was an army doctor, one that should be retired, but wasn't by the looks of him.

"We've been trying to clean his wound, but he just refuses. Stating he is fine and that he didn't want to be crowded by so many people...because there'd be too much stupid in the room. Patients make outbursts all the time, but we can't seem to restrain him, and we don't want to hurt him further."

John nodded and replied, "Yes, like I said, don't take it personally. And I'll see to his wound. Thank you, doctors." The two left to go check on others and John entered the room.

"I told you I don't want a nurse! You all don't need to be such idiots, I'm f-" The detective stopped when he looked up from his lap.

"You're being an idiot right now. Yes, you're brilliant, but you're not a doctor and don't know what you're doing to yourself right now." John went over to the bed and looked at the sheet which was becoming tainted by the blood that was still seeping.

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I said, 'I'm sorry'."

"For what? This?"

"For everything in general. I shouldn't have been so careless and -"

"How about for an apology, you just let me tend to this without struggle?" Sherlock pouted before giving his answer quietly.

"Yes, yes. Fine."

"Good. Now, let's take a look!" John smiled sarcastically and peeled the sheet off of his friend. "Sherlock, let go of the scarf."

"No."

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"No struggle, remember? Why won't you remove it?" When no answer came John acted defeated and then quickly ripped the scarf from the man. His breath hitched a little as his saw how deep it really was. At least three and a half inches.

John put on sterile gloves and unbuttoned the last few buttons on Sherlock's shirt, flipping it up and out of his way. Sherlock had his arms crossed as he pouted to the ceiling. The army doctor grabbed a disinfecting wipe, rubbing the area all around the wound until it was clean. John held a small light in his hand, and shined it into the stab to check if anything had gotten in it. He groaned when he saw a small piece of wood and some dirt.

"So, Sherlock. This is going to hurt and you absolutely can not move a lot, okay?"

"What are you going to do?" Alarm flashed in his eyes before they cooled down again.

"Flush it out with water and disinfectant after removing the splinter."

"Well, go on then!"

John smiled to himself.

"I would hold your hand, but I am rather busy and need both hands for this."

"Oh, shut up, John!" John giggled a bit as he reached for his tweezers. Pulling out the splinter wasn't bad at all but flushing the wound out was terrible. The mighty detective hissed until John had rinsed it with water and had started to stitch it closed.

"There, all done." John put some ointment and a fresh bandage on the closed hole and went to wash his hands. He also grabbed a hospital gown and threw it at Sherlock. "Your clothes are gross now, so change. I'm going to run home and do the same and I'll return in an hour or so with some fresh ones for you.

"Don't grab me pajamas."

"You'll take what I give you." John left, and Sherlock allowed himself a short smile before simply taking a short nap.

The two men were in fits of laughter as they sat on the couch, watching an unhappy Mycroft who sat across from them.

"Really, you two are so immature. Call me when we can actually have this short meeting without inappropriate laughter." He turned to leave and the giggles escalated. The deep rumble from Sherlock and the breathless squeak from John combined and made them laugh even harder.

"Sher...this isn't...good...for your...wooound!"

"It isn't very well for yours either!" The flatmates doubled over in great agony from all of the laughter that just wouldn't stop.

"Did you see his face?" John yelped, eyes pinched shut while he held his stomach. At his words, the person that people thought were so hardened threw his head back, running out of air. How the two had managed to pin a sticky note on the eldest Holmes brother's arse, they couldn't even remember. They definitely remembered drawing the picture of cake with a kissy face on it though.

"John!" he gasped, rubbing his eyes. "We need sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"Neither am I. Telly?" Sherlock offered, the pain in his stomach going slowly away.

"Sure. Tea?" John offered in return, still grinning like an idiot.

"John, we really do find the worst things to laugh about."

"Isn't it fantastic though?" More giggles escaped the two as they sat and watched more crap telly, things feeling very normal for once. No more Moriarty's or Moran's. Just the complex crimes that the two friends ran to every time Lestrade phone them. Sherlock went in to the kitchen and threw away the cheap phone he'd bought. He could just use his again, thank God.

As the two continued to watch their programs, they didn't hear the slight buzzing sound that came from the waste basket.

_Touché, Sherlock. No matter. Want to play? x JM _

_Yes, yes. Corny ending? Maybe. _And I liked the idea of them having fits of giggles over something. Sorry it took so long, but ya know. Anyways, I liked this story, maybe I'll start another. I'm considering doing a Cabin Pressure cross over, but I'd have to think on it. I'll mull over some things, and thank you all for reading this/ favoriting it/ alerting it/ commenting. It means the world to me! I hope you all like this chapter. If you have any ideas for stories you'd like me to do or one shots/drabbles/etc, just message or comment. Anywhooooeeeeooooooo, thanks again! :) - C


End file.
